Bar Bamboozlement
Energon shortages are definitely a thing, but as a thing, they are often beyond the scope of simple mechs -- except in how those shortages manifest in their day to day life. For some -- for many -- that means not enough in quantity, not enough in quality. That means there's a /business/ opportunity. Not for Hot Rod, mind you: he is customer, here. But there's certainly something to offer on both sides of the table, and where he lacks shanix (and oh, boy, does he lack shanix) there may be other things he can offer. So anyway, a deal is made, a contract sealed, and a trickle of energon is on delivery to be smuggled into Nyon. Possibly along with other things. Hey, who knows, right? NOT THE LAW. It just might be a familiar face to Blast Off that walks away from Hot Rod inside one of the quieter drinking establishments, leaving the Nyon hothead alone at a table with an empty glass. Blast Off could USE a drink. No, really. Even MORE than usual. The poor shuttleformer got 'proposed" to by what might be his worst enemy (apparently there's a line for that), then nearly poisoned by him. An earlier encounter with an Insecticon left him without his top-of-the-line rocket feet, as befits a space shuttle. Thanks to an encounter with 8another* Insecticon, he at least has some replacements, and an offer just recently to head to Kalis for possible *actual* replacements. But that means leaving Kaon and risking imprisonment. Oh, and there's the fact that he was apparently dating a kindergartener without knowing it, and ...yeah, he's ready for a drink. The Combaticons stands at the bar and orders a drink- not the high grade he'd LIKE, but something at least decent- he can afford it now. Thank Primus. He looks up to notice Swindle walking off, glancing to see who he was talking to and- hey, wait a minute, that's the guy who got all up into his face last time he saw him. Of course, he was sorta accidentally aiming a gun at him, but hey, details details. He frowns, wondering what business they were conducting, then decides it's none of his business and he doesn't care anyway. He turns, just as the bartender gets a look at him. "HEY! You're THAT guy! All the bartenders are talkin' about ya- you patch things up with your lover? You're not gonna cause a riot in HERE, are ya?" Blast Off stops and stares, mortified. Hot Rod and his empty glass pull up at the bar next to Blast Off /just in time/. "Wow, mech, just who are you causing riots with?" He's awful casual about his greeting considering the high tensions of their last meeting. His manner assumes a degree of friendliness that verges on /rude/. "What's that about?" he asks the bartender, too, just in case Blast Off doesn't feel like telling. As /might be the case/. Blast Off is too busy staring at the bartender and wondering how to respond when suddenly HOT ROD. (And how does a guy with loud flames all over keep sneaking up on him anyway)? He whirls to glare at the newcomer. "NO ONE. Nothing. What are YOU doing here, anyway?" the bartender is indeed far more free with dishing the story. "Oh, word is she" (he's looking at Blast Off as he says this) "got into a spat with her lover over at the Jump Joint. The bartender had just pulled out a really nice bottle of engex to celebrate her conjunx endura ceremony with this other space ship mech, and things got a little... heated. Caused a riot, it did." He stops to eyeball Blast Off again. "So.... yeah. No riots here, alright? Your loverboy shows up, I ain't getting out no engex." Hot Rod gives Blast Off a sunny smile and then ignores him. The bartender is clearly a better source of information. He greets this bit of gossip with wide-eyed appreciation -- flattering, friendly, and aimed at getting more details. "Wow, sounds like you're well-informed. So what's this about hi--r conjunx? How'd he take it?" In aside to Blast Off, leaning just a bit over, Hot Rod asks, "Who's the lucky mech, anyway? Please tell me it isn't Drift." The Bartender nods. "Well, yeah, it's my job to stay informed, keep track of who's a likely trouble-maker, that sort of thing." He starts polishing a glass and continues. "Drift? Nah, don't think so. Some mech named Quantum... a space ship, like ol' twinkle-toes here." Blast Off just continues to look mortified, though that look is starting to turn a bit murderous, too. His trigger finger begins to twitch. "Tried to get some high grade to celebrate with his sweetie- passions ran too high, I guess. The other bartender said she was cute, though." He turns to look just a BIT dubiously at Blast Off. "Um..." Blast Off has had it. "I am NOT a femme!!!" His ionic blaster comes out of subspace and points right at the bartender. "I was NOT in conjunx endura with that JERK and there is NO WAY I am going to sit here and listen to this nonsense while-" He gets interrupted by the bartender, who looks rather non-plussed about a gun being pointed in his face. "Um... ain't that a more.... "femee" thing ta do? Wouldn't a mech punch me or somethin'?" Blast Off just HUFFFFFFS as he deflates at that little comment, his gun sinking down to the bar and away from the bartender. "JUst LEAVE me ALONE." He glares at them both. It's not immediately clear on viewing a participant in a demolition derby whether he is the winner or not. Crumbled bits of blasted obstacles still stick in places to Breakdown, dusting his paint in a fine layer of, well, dust, while a larger crag of stone with a bit of metal stuck out of it has actually lodged itself between spare tire and the bulk of his back. Something falls off him to clunk on the floor of the bar as he shoulders in from outside, but who knows what it is -- not Breakdown; it wasn't attached, so he doesn't bother to look back. On second glance, he was probably the victor. He is too pleased a mess to not have been the victor. His smugness is a slow burn, low filter permeate, less noticeable and pervasive than that belonging to some people, but still detectable, probably even if you don't read auras. A little of it bleeds off into minor annoyance as he surveys the contents of the bar and notices who else is here, but not all of it. Lumbering toward the bar, Breakdown flattens his hand on it and greets the bartender with a nod that can probably be interpreted as /the usual/. There are a number of Kaon bars where Breakdown has a /usual/. "/Quantum/." Hot Rod lights up as though the bartender has just given him the best of presents. He looks at Blast Off with a grin that fairly threatens to break his face. His glee may be slightly malicious. /Slightly/. "Wow, that explains so much. You two had /electricity/. I think there was someone else in the past, probably why they got into a fight," he quickly adds to the bartender so that it can go into the gossip stew. "Glad to hear you guys are working past it," he tells Blast Off very seriously. (Not seriously.) Glancing past him to Breakdown, Hot Rod justifies his annoyance by greeting him, "So is there anything left of the wall?" The bartender spots Breakdown coming in- really, how could one NOT? He grins, and the drink is being made before Breakdown actually even gets there. Blast Off also notices the new arrival- though his is a less pleased reaction. His violet optics are immediately drawn to the mess- and he scoots slightly away from it like it's contagious. He's grungy enough just hanging around Kaon as it is- don't need to get even grungier. Not being the most social of mechs, and already rather annoyed, he otherwise ignores Breakdown. Then he whips his head back around to stare at Hot Rod. The shuttleformer bristles, straightening up in indignant outrage- and is sorely tempted to bring that gun back up again. Buuuut- probably not the best idea. He settles for giving Hot Rod the Death Glare of Doom, and swiping his drink even closer before taking an sulking swig. "Just keep in mind those flames make you really easy to spot." There's another low, annoyed huff, then he adds, "What ARE you doing here, anyway? I saw you with Swindle. And you're far from home, Hot Rod." Of course, so is HE, but..... "Nope. It's fragged." Breakdown eyes Hot Rod an air of irritation, but it is muted to almost gentleness by his general sense of well-being, unusually. What's left is almost a companionable sense of dislike. Like there's a yappy dog in your home neighborhood and it yaps and chases you on your bike sometimes, but it's part of the home neighborhood, and you accept it into your heart as something you are used to finding obnoxious and annoying. This is a really long analogy. Breakdown asks Blast Off, "You letting this loser bother you?" without reference to how much he might also himself be a bother. He leans his arm on the bar and a layer of dust seems to float down off him with the scrape of impact. "What, you know him?" Hot Rod, rather than sensibly deny his contact with Swindle, instead reacts with surprise that Blast Off might know people, maybe even have friends. "Well, then you can probably figure it out, can't you." He makes whatever it is sound even more suspicious than it probably is by failing to address the issue. Leaning back to get a longer look at Breakdown, Hot Rod makes a thoughtful noise. "Yeah, I bet it is. It looks like you've still got a bit of it -- there. And there. Oh, and there." He points with each word like someone who has never been taught that pointing is wrong. "Don't tell me /you've/ had a lover's spat too, like Blast Off here." Right, Blast Off. Right. Blast Off glances back to Breakdown- ah, is this an ally he spots? Or, well... that thought flashes across his mind at least until the cloud of dust hits, and he coughs and waves it way. Sigh. He is reminded that he really just doesn't like *people* in general. But still, he is a gentlemech and there are certain manners to be observed as such. And distractions can be a good thing- especially with this flame-coated annoyance. "...No, he was just leaving, I'm sure." He says, hoping Hot Rod will get the hint. He does respond to Hot Rod, though. "Yes. I WORK with him, which means that whatever deal you just made with him will probably affect ME, too, because then Swindle will expect ME to help him *transport* something." His optics narrow. "I'd like to know just *what* I'm going to be most likely asked to transport." Optics narrow even further. He hates transport work. Actually, he's managed to avoid it for the most part so far, but he's just *waiting* for that moment Swindle's going to approach him for that now that they're back as a team again. (Secretly he's hoping for some wine to figure into the deal somehow.) Then he tenses again. "I did NOT have a lover's spat! I was ...was... disparaged! Scandalized! Met with uncouth bamboozlement! Hornswaggled!" "No. Just a race." Breakdown speaks the word as with great relish, unselfconscious about the fact that he is a total mess of the kind that would probably make Knock Out dismayed. He clanks up onto a stool, settling in place like he belongs there and he'll be staying for awhile. He frames his hands around his drink with another nod to the bartender, and then slants an askance look at Blast Off. He says, "Well, uncouth bamboozlement, that sounds serious," in a voice that almost approximates great seriousness in the depths of its irony. "Ha, no I wasn't," Hot Rod laughs with a jostle of his arm against Blast Off's side in a nudge. HA HA BUDDY. He's not going anywhere. And he's certainly not getting a hint. "Hornswaggled." After repeating the word once, Hot Rod does it again: "/Hornswaggled/. Mech -- /mech/, you've really got to get out more." The vocabulary distraction allows him to ignore questions about Swindle and no one will ever notice. Blast Off does not pick up the irony, turning to give Breakdown a hearty nod. "Yes! I know, right? It's something I have to deal with every day here. It's not easy being a civilized mech among ruffians and hooligans." He also has no idea how offensive that might potentially sound. Again- not the most socially adept of individuals. He spent a loooong time alone in space (and Garrus-1), Ok? He pauses in his self-pity to take another look at Breakdown. "Race? There are races here?" Blast Off then huffs at the contact from hot Rod, leaning back immediately. He doesn't like physical contact- especially from annoying people. He gives the mech a deadpan, SO-not-amused look. "I have class and culture. If other people can't live up to MY high standards, that's THEIR problem, not mine." He adds, "I'd say YOU could stand to gain some. Expand your horizons. There IS more to life than... than..." he waves a finger at Hot Rod's flame patterns. "Racing and flames." "Of course." Breakdown flicks some dust off his shoulder pauldron with a tick of his pointed fingertips against it. "Demolition derby. We run 'em time and again." He sips from his drink, enjoying the cheapness as much as the burn, and then turns it in a slide of its glass against the surface of the bar. "You really got to stop piping so much about how much class you got, friend. It ain't real classy to throw down round these parts," he says. His intonation still quite dry, he glances at Hot Rod with a flicker of sharper irritation in his narrowed gaze. His consternation at finding himself similarly situated to Hot Rod in any attitude is obvious. He grumps, "So you fight with your lady, is that why you keep askin' about lovers' spats? What am I saying. You don't have one of those. You're in love with your reflection." Says Breakdown. Who lives with /Knock Out/. It takes some doing, but Blast Off manages it: he annoys Hot Rod. Much more used to being the annoyer than the annoyed, he doesn't seem to quite know what to do with this feeling. He just stares at Blast Off a long and silent moment. Well, a silent moment, anyway. The length might not be all that long to a normal mech, but it is /agony/ for Hot Rod. "I don't give a scrap about class and culture," he says with aggressive (defensive) lower-caste contempt. Hot Rod certainly breaks from his silence with /force/. His voice rises, given strength by the flames of passion. "Way I see it, that doesn't actually do much good for people, does it? Makes you feel better about yourself, maybe, but I've never seen why it should. I'd rather drink with /any/ of these /ruffians/--" He drops a hand on Breakdown's shoulder. Right, friend? Right. "--than put up with some snob who thinks civility is measured by caste." He drops his hand from Breakdown's shoulder before he can loose it in an irritated swat to plant his hand firmly on the bar. Hot Rod is way too busy striking an idealists pose to deal with accusations he is in love with his reflection. One moment. He is busy protagonisting. Blast Off turns to look at Breakdown now. Blink. "Well, why should I hide who I am? WHAT I am? I simply..." His sentence trails off as he actually bothers to *look* around him.... at all the very grungy, disgruntled, down-on-their-luck, low caste mechs populating the bar. Who might not LIKE High castes all that much. "Well, I..." Then Hot Rod is annoyed. ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED. Maybe. Blast Off blinks, looking at him in surprise before launching right back into the *righteous indignation* of a poor, suffering High Caste thrown mercilessly into the dregs and bottom of the barrel. Big, put-upon SIIIGH. "I BEG your PARDON, mech." He says faux-politely with a hard edge. "I am a spsce shuttle, coming from a long and proud tradition. And if our government wasn't so impossibly *short-sighted* and *stupid*, I'd still be living the high life, as I should. As for casre..." He looks around, and what is says next actually *is* tempered by his experiences here. he's a snob, yes, but not stupid. ".... Caste is not.... everything. There are some here who..." he struggles to find the words, for compliments don't come easily to him, "Who have their own sort of.... class, I suppose." Then a hard stare back to Hot Rod. "But I will NEVER apologize for being a shuttle. I will be proud of that to the day I die." "I already tried this," Breakdown grunts at Hot Rod. Sure enough, he swats at Hot Rod's hand with a backward flick of his pointed fingers. "You're wasting your breath. He'll fight for the right side when it counts because he's been upended from his cushy life and that--" He jerks his head in Blast Off's direction for his struggling, grudging acceptance of the idea that there may be value in others. "--is about as good as we're gonna get." He waggles his drink in a faint shiver of cheap liquid. Snorting, he suggests, "Thanks for proving my point, squirt. Have another drink." Hot Rod waves his swatted hand in a gesture. "It's not wasted if he /listens/," he insists, like somehow he is going to get through to Blast Off when /everything else in life/ has failed. "Okay, you want to be proud of being a shuttle. Why?" Hot Rod gives Blast Off a once-over glance and then asks, "What'd you do to be one? You want to be proud of being fast or strong or whatever because you /worked/ for it, sure. I recognize that. You want to be proud you knock over walls real good--" He tips his thumb back at Breakdown and his dust. "--then that's great. But how is your tradition any longer or any prouder than anyone else in here? No one should have to apologize for being what they are. Not a shuttle, sure -- but not a data slug, either. What good has all your /class/ ever done for anyone in here?" Blast Off glances over at Breakdown, but Hot Rod gets the majority of his attention, given what he's just said. The shuttle draws himself up as tall and straight as possible, a haughty and proud look to his expression. "I'll have you know I've done a LOT for Cybertron. Far more than it ever did for ME." There's a slight growl to his words as he continues. "Did you ever hear of the Primal Vanguard? Or is that too "educated" for someone like you? They were the elite peacekeeping fleet working for Cybertron across the galaxy. Space shuttles like me were *vital* towards that mission. We were *invaluable*." The Combatiocn doesn't usually like to admit to his past, but with his name in the news he figures it's mostly out there for anyone who looks now, anyway. "Because... you know how the sky is the limit? Well... for someone like me- it's NOT. There ARE no limits. The entire universe is there at our wing, and other Cybertronians depend on our expertise not only to get out, explore, and come back with information and resources...but to transport ground-pounders and planet-bound mechs out to the stars with us." Then there's a pause, as the reality of NOW hits home, and he stops to stare glumly at his drink. "Or...it WAS, before we got grounded too." "Yeah, good job, you matter more than anybody else around," Breakdown growls against the edge of his glass, "except for all the ways you don't, really." He turns his head, glaring briefly at the ceiling rather than at either of his irritating bar companions. He takes another swallow, as if by drinking more of the cheap-ass drink he is going to draw back in some of that general well=being he held close so recently. After a beat, Breakdown sets down his glass again, framing it in the cage of his pointed fingers, and says, "Suck it up." His tone heated, his words flashing, Hot Rod says, "Yeah, I've heard of them, but even if I didn't -- who cares? What difference does it really make if I knew or not? Just another chance for you to feel better than someone. What's it matter what they /did/ or what things /used/ to be when you're stuck here just like the rest of us." He throws his hands wide, encompassing the bar and the world beyond. "All that matters -- the only thing /really/ important -- is what you're doing for the rest of us. And as far as I can tell, all you offer is a lot of scrap about how important you are. I'd rather listen to Breakdown talk about hitting walls." So he turns away from Blast Off with a hitch of his shoulder and bristle of his spoiler to face Breakdown, who probably doesn't want to say a thing to him. "So how about that race, huh?" Blast Off gives Breakdown a sour look. A rebuttal is right on the tip of his tongue... but perhaps he's finally wising up at least a little, for he doesn't say it. Under certain circumstances the arrogant shuttle can actually be made to see value in others- it just takes him longer than most sometimes. Ok, a lot of times. His fingers grip the edge of his glass once more before pulling it up for another drink. Placing it back down, he does say, "What do you think I have been doing? This whole place is an excercise in.... learning.... patience." He looks at the Con. "And... so what? Isn't there something you're proud of, too?" The Combaticon glares at Hot Rod. He's silent for a long moment. "I offer many things... including a reminder of what once was. For you may scoff at it, but I embrace the past. One must look towards the future, but to forget the past, or scoff at it- is simply begging to repeat mistakes and not learn from its successes. Our goverment has certaonly forgotten, and as I recall, you (I thought) felt the same way? Was I mistaken about that?" Breakdown shrugs animatedly in a weighty shift of pauldrons. He says, "I ain't proud enough to waste breath on at the moment." He smiles with a particularly sardonic edge, holding up his glass to measure its measure of liquid. "Maybe you two bright and shining pinnacles have humbled me." He drains the rest of it, and then turns his glass upside down as he sits straighter. "I ain't an example of anything," Breakdown says, "except a mech who knows how fragged everything is. Which you both should already know. You don't need me for that. Talk is cheap. You've both done more'n talk before, so I don't know why you're bloviatin' now." For somebody who was making fun of Blast Off for vocabularity reasons moments ago, where'd he pull out /bloviate/? "I don't scoff at the past." Everything that Hot Rod has said has been an exercise in passion (see also: volume), yet the quieter words are no less fierce as he looks back at Blast Off. He somewhat unexpectedly leaves it at that. His feelings on the government ought to be /pretty obvious/ from what he has said, so he answers that only with a knowing look. C'mon, bud. C'mon. "Yeah, you're right. Talk is cheap." He doesn't touch bloviate with a ten meter pole. Blast Off raises an optic ridge at Breakdown's use of "bloviate". He leans back as if to regard the other mech, eying him for a time. "Well... yes." Haughty sniff. "Well, I was merely defending msyelf from HIS bloviating, that's all!" He makes a half-shrug head point in Hot Rod's direction. "Believe me, I know all about how "fragged" everything is. I saw the corruption first-hand. I got displaced BY it." He doesn't mention that he's also a "wanted mech" because of it, too. "Change is needed, and it's needed NOW." Yeah, it sounds mutinous, but he doesn't care. Besides, there's a lot of people who feel that way around these parts. Hot Rod gets a small huff again. He seems to trigger that a lot. Violet optics regard those flames, then turn back to his engex. "Then that's the first sensible thing I've heard from you. And yes- actions speak far greater than words." He takes another swig, then: "And you still haven't answered my question about Swindle." "Not just change," Breakdown growls to his drink, but he doesn't press the issue particularly. Hot Rod straightens, squares already squared shoulders, and lifts those flames right with his chin. "Yeah, you're right -- I didn't. And I'm not going to, either. Business. And it's not /your/ business." Which will make this whole thing entertaining and comical when Swindle, well, swindles Blast Off into being the one to carry whatever mystery items he's referring to into Nyon. Blast Off looks to Breakdown. "....What do you mean by that?" He thinks he knows, but he finds himself wanting a little... clarification. Mainly because whatever the crowds want here- is probably going to affect him, too. Then he returns Hot Rod's gaze. Another long silence. "Fine. I'm sure I'll find out soon enough, anyway." A small sigh, and the shuttle's back to his engex. "I imagine business must be picking up for him, anyway. This place is...perfect for someone like him." "Look at that, squirt showing his struts," Breakdown says, and it's impossible to tell whether there is any real approval amidst the audible snerk that is Breakdown's voice as he slants his gaze over Hot Rod. "Change isn't enough," he answers Blast Off. "Change could mean anything. We don't need change because change implies that what we have just needs, like, tweaking, like, calbratin' or whatever. Needs torn down. Started over. We need /anew/, not /again/." "And none of that's going to happen at a bar, so I think I'll go speak some action, instead," says Hot Rod as he pushes away from the others. He gives Breakdown a flicker of an irritated glance -- young to old, small to large -- for being called a SQUIRT. "Enjoy your class, or whatever," he tells Blast Off. Blast Off listens to Breakdown, then nods. "You have a point." The Combaticon isn't one for mindless destruction, but he IS a Combaticon at spark, and certainly believes there's a time to just burn it ALL down. So, this sounds reasonable to him. "I would hate to see widespread chaos, but I wouldn't mind a little precise, planned... earth-shaking. Primus knows this planet needs it." He shakes his head. Then turns to Hot Rod with another *huff*. Well, good, the annoying mech is finally leaving. Of course, *everyone everywhere* is pretty much in the same category in the shuttle's mind, but that's neither here nor there. He finishes his own drink in one last swallow, then places the glass down. He even has the shanix now for a (small) tip. And *someday*... he'll have the shanix for some REAL high grade- like wine! "Good," Breakdown answers Hot Rod in dusty benediction. "Don't get murdered by any reprogrammed jerk friends of yours." (You know. Benediction.) Way to take the wind out of Hot Rod's sails: he heads off with a drag in his step and a dip of his spoiler. He mumbles something. It's inaudible.